Erik's Story
by Lady Ayisha
Summary: Erik survived after Christine's desertion, and, twenty years later, HE has a son, borne to him by a witch obsessed with his scars. Christine has a daughter, blinded by the ogre of a husband she thought would protect her. Love unites even Angels, in time..
1. Erik

For the third time in ten minutes, I irritably ceased my soft playing to thrust away the intrusive kitten wandering across the heavy keys of Father's organ. A sweet enough creature, I supposed, what with his patched coat and eternally black-smudged nose, but never had I encountered a creature so damnably distracting!  
  
He was back within seconds, demanding my undivided attention by shoving his tiny, silky furred head against my hand, purring madly. This cat apparently never stopped purring!  
  
I petted him at last, but not without acidic commentary. "If you don't stop interrupting me, I shall have to drop you off the roof of the Populaire. Then we shall see if cats truly do always land on their paws." I coughed softly into my other hand, swallowing against a dry, itching throat. The damp down here in the labrynths beneath the Paris Opera House, my home, always got to my lungs in the winter. It had been that way for as long as I could remember. But this was my home, and I refused to leave my father.  
  
"Erik, you'd better get something into you for that cough, or you'll lose your voice." The man who drifted silently over to me and laid a cold, gloved hand on my shoulder, wore a gleaming white mask over features that had not been simply deformed at birth but so ruined as to leave him to resemble a living corpse. Throughout his entire life, his uncanny ugliness and frightening genius had made him the worst sort of outcast, never knowing love or gentleness from any quarter. I know very little about Father's early years, but in the late 1880's, perhaps twenty years ago now, I do know that he met and fell in love with one Christine Daaé, a beautiful young chorus girl with, he used to tell me fondly, the voice of an angel. She had been his very obsession, and so he had taken her on as a private vocal student – and she had become, as far as I know, his only love instead. When Father spoke of her – he very rarely did so now – his voice would still fill with regretful, terrible adoration.  
  
But I hated her. In my private thoughts, she was a demoness, who had stolen my father's heart with her musical skill and beauty, and then, like the mystical Siren, had drowned him in her petty dislike for all things outwardly ugly. She had been his angel, his pride and joy for so long – and because of his physical ugliness, she had gone away from him. She had left him alone to be with that blustering drunkard, Raoul Du Chagney. She, in her childish love of all things beautiful and bright, had spurned my father for the outward ugliness he exuded, repelling my father's great love and care for her like some unwanted invasion of an enemy she hated simply because he did not look as she did.  
  
She had broken him, taken away the last thing he had lived for – a reason for his music – and had left him weak and open for Maurissa.  
  
I shuddered at even the thought of my mother's name, one hand reflexively tweitching towards the spare white half-mask lying beside me on the organ seat. The familiar, horrible memory croded into my mind, but I swallowed it down quickly like bitter medicine and gritted my teeth.  
  
Perhaps a month or so after Christine's desertion of my father, he was preparing his affairs, meaning to die – even he had things to put in order, though he's never told me what they were – when a young blonde woman, marked heavily with the insane eyes of a fanatic, stumbled into his music room. Even now, the music room is the first chamber to go through to reach the rest of the house. Father had been straightening things within when he had glanced up at the sound of a skiff hitting the shore. He has never said so, but I know that for a terrible moment, he had remembered Christine, and had thought that she had come back to him after all. He has told me that he returned to his work, thinking nothing of the sound – though he probably went out to the shore.  
  
At any rate, I believe him when he says Maurissa burst in on him then, babbling on about how she had finally found him 'after years of searching' and that she would 'simply die if he sent her away'. I don't like to think about it, but I know that from that day, she wormed her insidious little way into Father's heart, where only damnable Christine had been before.  
  
Whenever I can bear to think about my mother, the image that comes to mind with those thoughts is of the serpent that bit famous Achilles' heel. Maurissa De La Mer had known my father very well, even before she had met him – and she knew his one weakness had been female love. In her own twisted, demented way, she had loved him, and she made sure he knew that.  
  
Yes, she had loved him. She had loved him enough to destroy his only son. I sucked in a short, silent breath, steeling myself against the memories I knew were sure to come.  
  
I had been no more than six or eight months old, a healthy, beautiful baby, or so Father always says, and he had finally taken leave of me to do some repairs on the single skiff he and Maurissa used to cross the subterranean lake. A bitter irony, for he was only doing it to ensure my safety in it – he was going to take me above ground, to show me the world of Paris. So he had left me that day in the care of my decidedly-unhappy and much-crazed mother. Father, of course, never suspected that she abhorred the very sight of me, her only son, because I had been born without a single scar or blemish to mar me. She hated me, Father once said, because I had not, to her, the essence of what she loved in my father – his scars. In that one infinitely important way, I did not resemble her idol and lifelong obsession.  
  
She had been fooling with Father's pharmaceuticals for some time without his knowledge and had at long last managed to create a corrosive acid to replace my aberration with her ruinous concept of perfection.  
  
She had poured the acid down half of my face.  
  
These are the memories I do not have to take from Father's telling me; I recall them nearly perfectly myself. My screams had brought Father running into the house, and he had been fast enough to save at least one half of my face – Maurissa hadn't had the time to reach the other side of it – but it was too late for my left side.  
  
The left side of my face is completely ruined. In some places, there is no skin left at all, merely the pitted, white bone of my skull beneath. She had been very careful to hit only the skin, and while that was missing, I am lucky enough to have retained my sight. Father had been swift enough – and wise enough, with his knowledge of medicines, - to save what little skin he could, and avoid massive amounts of skeletal damage. The acid hadn't had time to eat through more than the layers of skin (and tissue, in some places) covering my face, and I suppose I can consider myself very lucky.  
  
Father refuses, even now that I am grown, to tell me what happened to my mother after that time, and I have the uneasy suspicion that he does not know. He and I both have our periods of dark despair, through which we find our only solace in music, but if I am correct, (though I cannot be certain, having only ever seen it in myself) we also share a black and volatile rage which can consume us in an instant. Usually, I cannot recall what it is I do in those dark hours, but the destruction left behind is often blatantly clear.  
  
The last thing Father has ever told me about that time is that he recalls striding towards Maurissa, and that he had found himself hours later, holding me on the rooftop of the Paris Opera House, our home.  
  
I felt his hand squeeze my shoulder, bringing me back to the present. "Erik? Are you all right?"  
  
I blinked and nodded, turning to face him. His eyes, a soft amber with their concern, met my hauntingly-light green ones and seemed to shiver away for just an instant.  
  
Whatever scars I bore on my face, I know that the worst reminder by far for either of us is my penetrating, light green eyes. The one physical feature I had been unlucky enough to inherit from my mother was my eyes. They seemed to gaze through even myself when I caught sight of my reflection, (something that happened rarely and only when I was masked) and could easily pierce into others' minds. I could sense others' feelings, thoughts, even their innermost desires and fears, simply by watching them.  
  
"I'm fine, Father… Just woolgathering." I coughed, turning my unmasked face away from him as I raised my right fist to my lips in a vain effort to stop the paroxysm. Father held me by the shoulders gently until he felt me draw in a regular breath, only then moving away to a cabinet on the wall. Reaching behind him, he grasped a steaming mug that I had not seen him come in with before, and added to it a finger's length of some aromatic liquid that made me twitch slightly in distaste.  
  
He smiled wryly behind the mask. "I've added honey to it this time. You know I don't like to."  
  
"The honey isn't going to be what will harm my voice. The coughing will," I replied steadily, wincing at the rough sound of my already congested voice.  
  
"Yes, and permanently if you don't keep quiet," he warned. "Do not talk more than necessary until you're better –"  
  
"Or I could sacrifice my voice for good,, I know." I sighed, taking the cup and sipping carefully at the hot contents. It scalded my sore throat, but I held back the coughing spell until I had swallowed the astringent liquid.  
  
The air rattled in my strained lungs as I tried to breathe deeply without causing another fit. "What did you heat this with?" I demanded hoarsely. "A burning coal?"  
  
Father smiled and let his chilled fingers soothe my aching throat. "You're the one who refuses to drink anything cold." He lifted me gently to my feet. "Now stop talking." His voice turned slightly severe and I nodded, gripping his arm as lightheadedness swept me. Father merely tightened his grip on my arm and helped me gently down the hall to the darkly-masculine room I called my own.  
  
On ever conceivable flat surface, there lay neat piles of composition paper, most marked with scores of melodies. Some stacks were blank, however, and I paused briefly by them to weigh them down, knowing the expensive paper I liked was hard to come by. The room itself was sparsely decorated, with nothing on the wall save a rich, dark paneling and the only furniture other than tables to hold paper, quills and ink was a sand-table for scribing notes on the frequent occasions I ran out of paper and ink, and the heavy four-poster bed my father had crafted for me when I had been very young.  
  
Father was turning back the heavy covers of that bed now as I slowly made my way over to him, teeth chattering softly. He seated me gently on the bed and then pushed me down when I refused to let him remove my clothing, as they contained what little body heat I was still exuding.  
  
"I'll be here all night, Erik, and I'll check on you every once in a while whether you like it or not," he added, knowing I would not. His voice was gentle and tender, his lips smiling faintly behind the stiff white mask he had worn for nearly sixty years. He stroked my thick black hair back softly, his powerful white fingers in stark contrast to the dark, shuddering weakness I felt. Those slim fingers continued their gentle caresses until I felt the bitter-tasting medicine settle into my body and begin to take effect. My sight blurred until I could barely see my father and for a moment, this frightened me.  
  
As if sensing this, he began to sing softly, his voice no less powerful than it had been twenty years before, when he had used the hypnotic sound to lure his only love to the only home he had ever known. But the familiar sound of the song, and the soothing cadence of his voice, soon reassured me, and I closed my eyes, quickly falling asleep.  
  
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * 


	2. Memories

I woke to silence. The complete, utter quiet frightened me for a moment; as long as I could recall, there had always been some sound in the labyrinths where I lived. The far-off squeal of a rat, or the maddening but steady drip of water along the old sewage pipes, something!  
  
Drawing in a soft, steadying breath, I strained to catch some familiar sound to ease the silence, listening hard enough so that when the throbbing power of Father's organ music tore through the stillness, it frightened me far more than the lack of noise had. I jerked hard enough to lift my entire upper body off the bed and the kitten, who had been peacefully sleeping by my head, yowled and took off to his refuge beneath the bed. As he left, his back feet, which had lain closest to my head, flipped out and buried their claws deep within my scalp. I gave a hoarse yell and lunged for the filthy little beast, but he had the double advantage of not being entangled either by blankets or by the last dregs of a fairly powerful sleeping draught.  
  
Snarling wordless curses, I curled quickly into the blankets again, shuddering as cold air hit my taut, aching skin. To calm myself, I listened to the dark strains of Father's music, not realizing in my sudden lethargy that what he played was the funeral aire of his most famous but unfinished works – Don Juan Triumphant. Had I but possessed half an alert ear, I would have recognized the playing as a warning. Father always played this piece when he was feeling lonely or upset.  
  
But the meaning behind the music eluded me for the moment, and I felt a curious, wrenching loss when I realized that the music had stopped. I closed my tired eyes, letting my body drift into a half-doze, which I was abruptly startled out of when I heard my father curse softly. Surprised, I opened my eyes to see him turning back towards the door. By the heavy set of his powerful shoulders, I knew he was upset about something and didn't dare to speak, instead shifting position and rustling the covers loudly enough to gain his attention.  
  
He turned back immediately and I winced inwardly at the deep pain etching his maskless, ruined features. He had been thinking of her again! Oh, how I hated Christine Daae!  
  
"You are awake." He came instantly to my side.  
  
I nodded, then reached up and pushed his heavy silver forelock back from it's place over his masked brow, appalled at how my fingers shook as I did so.  
  
"How are you feeling? Any better?" He closed his hands over mind, quelling at least the sight of the shaking. I watched him for several moments, gauging his mood, then closed my eyes and 'thought' my answer at him. Not a good explanation, perhaps, but it is the best I can give.  
  
"I've certainly felt better…" The voice that was my own thoughts echoed inside my head for a moment, then vanished, and I knew Father could hear it. He kept his composure admirably, but I had known him long enough to be aware that I had at last managed to startle him. "It hurts to breathe," I added as an afterthought, wondering if it would work again. It apparently did, for he for knelt down beside me and gently ran his hands along my ribs, tickling a coughing spasm out of me that left me breathless and weak. It was only when I realized that I could feel my father's fear and concern tightening in my own chest that I was able to open my eyes again and shut the link I had formed between us. Some of the painful pressure eased and I drew a careful breath.  
  
"Does it hurt only after you cough?" he asked finally, stroking my hair back.  
  
I thought about it, then shook my head carefully, watching a grim expression settle cheerlessly over his darkened eyes. His lips moved in a silent curse and he sighed. "The damp has infected your lungs. I thought so, when I heard you breathing last night. Dammit!" He passed a weary hand over his brow, then hastened to reassure me. "No, no, it isn't your fault, my son… Not yours at all. It's the damnable damp down here, and the conditions under which I make you live…"  
  
My eyes flared and I broke his rule of silence to snap at him. "It isn't your fault either, it was and is hers!" My strained voice cracked and broke as it had years ago when I had been a boy changing to a man. My throat closed over in panic as Maurissa's hateful face, sneering with delight, broke into my mind. Father, about to berate m for speaking, suddenly pulled me close against his chest instead. "Hush, hush, it's all right. You're safe, Erik, it's over. She's gone now. Come, stop shaking, you know that." He held me, trying to soothe me in a way he had done countless times in the past.  
  
But I couldn't seem to quell my shaking. In unusually vivid flashes, the memories slowly wound their macabre procession around my brain; the tiny acid bottle glinting in the faint light; the inquisitive glances and grasps I had extended towards it as I lay on my back in the heavy wooden cradle my father had crafted for me; my mother's insane laughter, softly chilling as she brought the bottle close, tipping its contents down my cheek, spreading it across my brow.  
  
Father was pinning my arms to my sides, I dimly felt, as I clawed desperately at my unmasked features, trying desperately to scrape away the memories of an agony so real then that it was still haunting me now.  
  
"Erik, calm down!" Father snapped, slapping me sharply. I froze instantly; he had never, never hit me. Not once in my lifetime had he ever raised a hand to me. Normally, during fits like these – I edged away from the word 'hysterics' – they only lasted a few minutes and holding me would usually cure them. But this, this was like the nightmares I hadn't had since boyhood. Almost every night I'd awaken screaming, loud enough, M'sieu André used to tell Father, that those outside the Populaire could hear me. Those had lasted not minutes, but hours, and nothing would calm me save Father singing softly to me as he rocked me close, which he began to do now, his lips brushing the soft skin of one earlobe.  
  
His voice, still hauntingly melodic, the hypnotizing voice of a young, dark god, began to soothe me almost immediately. My shivers subsides gradually, but my eyes still remained on his face, shocked still that he had at first used force to try and quell my fit. The song, unintelligibly worded, ended on a sweetly poignant, dark note, but it did not wipe away my surprise. I knew then how worried Father was, that he would broach his pact of self- control so completely as to strike me.  
  
"Erik, Erik, forgive me…" he murmured softly, his eyes urgently seeking mine. "Please… I didn't mean to hit you, no, I would never hurt you, oh, Erik, I am frightened, frightened for you, forgive me, please…"  
  
My breathing, hampered by the brush with a violent attack of panic and by the heavy, leaden liquid in my lungs, was nevertheless slowing to normal rhythm by the time I found the strength to press my quivering hands against Father's lips. My pale green eyes reflecting nothing more than weary illness, I met his gaze unflinchingly. A single, powerful thought thundered in brief majesty in my mind's silence before I allowed Father to hear it.  
  
"I love you." My lips, white and trembling with sick weariness, nevertheless formed each word without breath to mime them, not daring even now to countermand my father's orders and incite his wrath. I closed my eyes as he drew me close against him and, feeling like some trembling, starving lover at last reunited with the object of his affections, I clung to Father's strength and drifted off to sleep in his arms. 


	3. My son

For long moments after my son dropped into sleep, I knelt with him in my arms, silently weeping with shame – and wonder.  
  
I had been so frightened upon entering his room a full twelve hours after giving him a sleeping draught meant to last no more than six and finding him still asleep, that I had very nearly lost my mind. He was all I had left in this world; he was the last person who did not judge me either for the terror of my past or for my horrible visage. I wondered now at the depths of his love for me – not doubting it, but rather awe-stricken over it! Even after twenty years, yes, nearly twenty years now, I still did not understand his reasons for loving me. I was simply not a being capable of accepting love. I had, or so I had thought, been weaned of the need to feel love at an early age in my long-past childhood, that evidence of it, or of it's companion, friendship, was utterly alien to me.  
  
But he loved me. He, who could have been the veritable god I had often been described as in my youth, save for my face, he would do anything for me. His knowledge and thirst for learning matched, if not exceeded my own, and he was born without the one flaw I possess other than my ruined face, a sense of right and wrong. I had been an amoral monster all of my life, but he had never spilled blood or stolen a life. A chorus boy, unlucky enough to have seen us, had once called him a half-faced angel – and I had killed the impertinent child. But Erik, no, he had never laid a hand on anyone in violence.  
  
He knew, also, that somewhere there was more to this world than the dank corridors of the lowest cellar in the famous Palais Garnier, and yet he stayed!  
  
I lifted him gently into my arms and carried him down the long hall to my room, laying around his shaking, fevered body an array of blankets that had been warming by the fire. My movements, still dripping with the uncanny grace of a beautiful predatory cat, were nonetheless mechanical, as my eyes remained fixed on my son's sleeping face. My thoughts tonight seemed doomed to entertain self-loathing and disgust as their guests tonight. If only I were a little stronger… We could live above, he and I, if only I could put away my selfish, endless dislike of the human race … My own vanity- yes, isn't it laughable for a man without a face to have pride? – and inexplicable selfishness chains him down here in this dank, sewage laden excuse for a burial ground.  
  
This tribute to living graveyards that my own filth ridden, sensually crazed hands had crafted was slowly going to swallow my son as it had swallowed me.  
  
I clenched my teeth, which were still white and strong despite my age and deformity, until slivers of pain like long forgotten glass slivers ricocheted through my ruined jaws.  
  
Tomorrow, I would take him from here.  
  
Tomorrow, I would give my son the world. 


	4. Emerging

"Erik, are you quite mad?" André demanded hotly of me the following day. "If you take your son out, how the hell do you expect to feed him, clothe him, keep him out of sight?"

I smiled grimly from behind my mask. "That's what my 'pension' is for, m'sieu." I knew he was angry simply because without a 'ghost', the declining popularity of the Opera would only drain further.

"Your…" His eyes narrowed. "Ah, right. Your fee for 'ghostly services'. You've not been doing much of that lately," he suggested, glancing towards the stack of what I knew were the Opera's ledger books.

"If you dock my pay, m'sieu, I shall see to it that my lost money is made up for in your lost reputation." I let silky menace creep into my calm voice and André stiffened indignantly.

"I said nothing of the sort!"

"You did not have to," I replied dryly. "Ghosts can read body language as well as perform more prosaic things – say, tumbling a chandelier." I rose casually to my feet, smirking at the anger suffusing his features. "Now, if you would, please find me suitable lodging close to the Opera for the next three weeks or so."

"That will require you to go out," he warned. "Landlords enjoy their tenants to pay them in person."

"I will take care of that. Oh, and while I'm 'on vacation', do find a new tenor. Ricardo has gone quite deaf, you know."

André winced. "I had heard he wasn't performing quite up to pitch." He flushed at his pun, then paled at my growling chuckle. "I'll see what I can do."

"Do it, André," I suggested pleasantly. "For if you do not, _I _shall do it – and leave you to pick up what's left." I delighted in his shudder, chuckled again just to see him pale, and vanished through one of the many trapdoors I had engineered when I had helped build this place nearly thirty years before. I had seen three managements, a score of ballet girls and a smattering of divas (only one had every been worth half the meaning of the title) come and go over the years, but never had any of them figured out my magician's trickery.

I was well aware that trickery was all there was to my ghostly character, and if asked, I would shrug and simply remark that I must be the most well-paid charlatan in Paris.

I reached the secret door to my home, slipping in and following the darkened passageway to the lake, poling across it in silence. Listening for any sound of my son, any indication that he had shaken off the lethargy that his illness had wrapped him in, I was quite surprised when I turned and beheld him standing there, one hand pressed in a deceptively casual manner against the lintel.

__

I had not heard him move!

Perhaps fifty-nine years is quite an age to be reckoned with, but I knew that it was only my heart which gave me trouble from time to time, not my hearing.

So how in God's name had he done that?

He smiled at me then, that charming, beautiful smile of pure mischievous deviltry, a smile that had never failed to weaken any cold feelings of displeasure I may ever have had towards him. **_"Did I frighten you, Father?"_**

Impertinent little snip! His thoughts, so clearly audible it was as if he were using his true voice, held even the exact note of suppressed delight and gentle smug teasing.

"No," I responded flatly, crossing my arms. "What are you doing up?"

For a single heart-breaking moment, he reminded me of Christine, whom I had mourned for weeks after seeing the announcement of her marriage to that disgusting little drunkard Raoul Du Chagney. The announcement had been in an English newspaper I had picked up by chance while haunting the wet streets of Paris one long ago night.

I'd had my fourth seizure of the heart that night and had it not been for my own odd sense of duty and love towards my son, I knew I would have thrown myself from the roof of the Opera.

But even now, as I gaze at his hurt features with mock severity to hide my inner agony, even now I know why I did not die on the Parisian streets that night.

It was because of my son. 

His features had changed to a subtle reminder of his mother now; sullen resentment burned beneath his haunting eyes at my dismissal of his attempt to guide some levity into my life. Reaching out, I touched his unscarred cheek gently, inwardly flinching at the electric heat I felt smouldering beneath his skin. His penetrating eyes, oddly unclouded by the fever I knew was sapping his strength, met mine searchingly for a moment and found not condemnation and anger within them, but tenderness and love.

He relaxed slowly, the mischief returning to his features, though with notably less strength. His usually pale features had become pallid, almost translucent with some inner strain, and I made my decision in stone in that moment.

I would take him from here.

Perhaps even for good.

But for now, I quickly lent him my arm and seated him on the old organ stool before weakness took what dignity he had reserved along with his failing strength. "Take deep breaths, Erik, it's all right." I gently pushed his head down and counted to ten slowly, my eyes closed in horror at the heat flaring beneath his skin. At eight counts, he pushed my hands away, and I was glad to feel that there was less weakness in his hands today. But each breath was still an agony, and the cold, damp air in this place would only send him more swiftly down the path to whatever there was after this life.

"Are you all right?" I asked softly at long last. He nodded with the slow caution of one that is not quite that his head is indeed still well attached to his neck and cleared his throat as softly as he could. I watched him for long moments, then spoke gently. "I need you to gather some things, beloved. Anything precious you feel you may want."

His eyes flashed to mine, and without a word, asked why.

"I've taken a place above ground to use until you're feeling better," I replied, feeling my own heart speed up in response to the growing horror in his eyes.

**__**

"Father, no, I can't…" His thought was barely audible in my mind and I could feel his brain whirling with confusion. **_"I can't go up there, out there, not like this!"_** In trembling desperation, he pointed to his masked face.

"Erik, I survived above ground for most of my life, you know that. A few weeks, to rid your lungs of the infection..."

**__**

"You survived in a cage!" His thoughts seethed with fury and I recoiled at the memory. Whatever had possessed me to tell him _that_ story?

"There are no illiterate gypsies in Paris of 1901," I returned smoothly. "You will be safe with me. I shall not let anyone hurt you."

He seemed to calm, but in point of fact, he was mystified. **_"You will be there? You are not making me go up there alone?"_**

I laughed gently, only now realizing the true cause of his panic. "Of course I will, you silly boy. Do you think I'd let you out into the world alone? You'd have the city on its knees within a week!"

He smiled at that and I relaxed slowly. This would work. "Come, we only have a few hours until nightfall."

We worked slowly together over the next few hours, with me forcing him to take periodic rests that he, in turn, grumbled at. We said little to each other until I called the cats to me. One, a descendant of my beloved Ayesha, was Erik's pride and joy, his beautiful, feline, Siamese darling. 

The other, whom I much preferred, as Leysha brought back too many memories of the days when my only friend was indeed her ancestress; the other cat was Erik's only source of discontent with me. He and the kitten were constantly at war with each other. The unnamed little kitten, a cast-off of André's (his cat was forever dropping young) constantly found new ways to irritate my son – seeming to wait until he had just reached a thunderous climax in a new composition to walk all over the organ keys and gnaw on his fingers, or wait until he had fallen exhaustedly into his bed after a long bout of insomnia to chew industriously on his toes. The worst he had ever done, this kitten, which had almost gotten him killed, was to bat a full bottle of ink over freshly written scores of my son's.

If my son was feeling at all charitable, he'd occasionally pet the animal, but most of the time, would simply dispense with something so simply, and lock him in my room instead. Of course, the poor crafty thing would then yowl so piteously at my door that I would be forced to let him out and the row would start all over again.

"Leave that one here!" He complained. "There are mice enough and water! If I am to be convalescing at least let me do it in peace. Better still, you take him and leave Leysha and I here."

I awarded him a flat, unfriendly glare and the kitten smugly curled itself in my arms.

At long last, we had gathered together what little Erik felt he would need to make this transition easier for him and we moved through the dank underground passages leading to the door on the Rue Scribe. He had never come here for any reason and I caught him glancing around in silent awe at the new sights.

But when I opened the heavy door for him, my other hand carrying the cats in their baskets, he froze and shrank back, one hand pressed to his chest as he fought for breath.

__

Dear God, have I cursed him with my heart's ailments as well as my scars? No, no, it was only panic causing this pressure, not any lasting condition. I breathed a little easier. "Erik, hush, you're all right. You're fine, you will be fine. Come along now." I picked up the cat's carrying basket and moved out into the softly-falling darkness, looking back over my shoulder. He still lay against the wall, face pressed gently against the cold stone, his breath heaving from him in congested, ragged coughs.

With my heart wrenching in my chest, I went back towards him, my free hand clenching at my side not in exasperation but in fury at the fates that had caused him to have to fear the outside world like this. "Come along Erik."

Slowly, with the ease of years of practice, my voice slipped hypnotically through the barrier of his panic. For tense moments, I watched as he resisted furiously then nearly capered with triumph as he rose stiffly to his feet.


	5. Adjusting

Oh, God, no! I can't, I can't, I can't! I began to chant the simple words in my head over like a mantra of discouragement. I can't go out there, they'll find me, they'll kill me, and they'll kill Father! My mind whirled in endless circles of frightened thought as I stared disbelievingly at the door that led to a world I had never seen save from the ten-stories-high rooftop of the Paris Opera House.  
  
My breath was wrung from me in panic; I no longer cared about anything but shutting that damned door and fleeing back to the familiar damp obscurity of my home. Surely there were old, unused rooms in the Opera that we could use instead! Instead of this!  
  
I had simply frozen in utter fear, unable to tear my eyes away from a gaping hole that revealed a world blooming with light even in the shadows of midnight, when I slowly registered Father's voice filling my mind, coaxing me gently along. For long moments, I resisted, but his hypnotic voice was slowly taking my brain's place, forcing my limbs to move, my breaths to slow, my shaking to cease. On he drew me like some wicked Pied Piper into a black night I feared more than any memory-haunted shadow the labriynths could form.  
  
And on I followed, captured like a besotted sailor in the grasps of the honeyed Siren's voice.  
  
We must have looked a strange sight, I suppose; two well-built men, so heavily cowled that not an inch of facial features were visible, one carrying a light rucksack and the other a basket with two cats. I kept my eyes on the ground, trusting Father to lead us to our destination. Panic flared within me every time I was forced to raise my head to gaze at the world around me, and Father's hand would tighten on my arm reassuringly. We said nothing as he led me through the back streets of Paris to a small apartment.  
  
By then, the panic and the strain of even such a short walk was beginning to take effect on me – my breath came in quiet, hoarse hisses between my clenched teeth and I quivered with every step I took. I leaned heavily against the wall of the darkened entryway, raising my head only enough to glance up the shadowed stairs and to look around the room. The walls were bare, but I could see that their lack of decoration was recent, for there were spots of darkened paint where the sun had not worn away at the color, which was a dark, soothing beige. The few plants I could see were wilted and dead save for one, a long-stemmed black rose. I smiled at the sight of it and dropped the light sack on the stairs, moving over to it while Father had his back turned.  
  
I touched my shaking fingers to the soft petals, knowing that the rose I was touching had been blooming for more than fifteen years. I had been nearly five when I had presented Father with it, the earliest symbol of my otherworldly talents. It's inner core was crafted of pure sterling silver – I had formed it myself after Father had taught me the craft. I had stood and watched the rose for quite a while, deciding in my childish way that it was too drab and grey, that it needed color.  
  
Even now, I cannot describe what I did. I remember the building rush of power that surged through me and then seemed to slip from my fingertips, along with the image of the living black rose I had seen in my mind.  
  
Moments later, I had held a living rose in my hand where once there had been only silver.  
  
I smiled now at the memory, turning to face Father, who had been watching me with a curious expression on his features. He held the damnable kitten in his arms, absently stroking its head as he watched me.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked softly, setting the kitten down to explore and coming over to me.  
  
I nodded quietly, fingers still caressing the rose. "Do you remember this?"  
  
He smiled. "Yes. I took it with me one night when I came out for something and I must have left it here." He took my arm gently as I cleared my throat with difficulty. "Come, let's get you settled in." I let him lead me slowly up the stairs, keeping my head down and my concentration on not stepping on the cats, which trotted up the stairs beside me.  
  
Father continued to talk as he led me down darkened halls lined only with dust-covered, sheeted furniture. "There's a room here that adjoins the one I'll be using, and I'll put you in there… The windows all face away from the street and there's shades if you want them. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can hurt you here, do you understand?" He stopped and turned me to face him suddenly, forcing me to look him in the face. "I will not let anything happen to you…" he continued in a softer tone. "Understand?"  
  
I nodded wearily, barely hanging on to consciousness by now. He saw this and quickly lifted me into his arms. For a moment, I struggled, but weariness covered me like a shroud and I closed my eyes, gasping against the dizzying greyness that attempted to suck me down into unconsciousness. Father held me close, pressing his lips to my fevered brow and murmuring words I could no longer hear. I did not feel him lay me gently on the cool sheets of the bed, or feel his body wrap around mine as he lay beside me, holding me and comforting me.  
  
I only felt peace, as it wrapped me in its gentle arms and took me away. 


	6. Journey

"I am nearly eighteen, Father, I will do as I please now! And I _will _go and work at the Opera!" Journey Elise Du Chagney stood and faced the direction of her father, her blind eyes staring in their uncanny way, boring into him so that he was forced to look past her as he roared his displeasure.

"You will _not _go to that bedamned Opera! You are _my _daughter, and I'll be damned twice over before I let you set foot in the place!" He slammed his wineglass down hard enough to shatter the crystal, hissing as the base cut his thumb. "CHRISTINE!" He bellowed a moment later.

The woman that hurried into the room was strikingly beautiful, and yet, Erik would not have recognized her for the fear consuming her eyes. Her back bent, she hurried in, thin white hands flying nervously to strained features as she saw the blood trickling down her husband's hand. "Oh, Raoul, whatever happened?"

"Never mind what happened, just clean it up!" He still had not lowered his voice, so when his second daughter, Lydie, toddled into the room, sucking industriously on one thumb, her eyes wide at all the fuss, she burrowed up in fear against Journey, who stumbled slightly, having not been able to see her little sister coming. Lydie lost her precarious balance and fell with a hard thud on the fine wood flooring of the dining room, letting out a wail more composed of surprise than pain.

Raoul whirled, unbalancing Christine with a hard slap to the face. "Can't you _ever _get that child to stay in her room where she belongs?" Blood from his half-bandaged wound splattered across her face and dress, earning her another slap. "And you can't even be careful! Now look what your stupidity has done!"

Journey lunged towards her father's voice, homing in on the rough sound with surprising accuracy and slapping him as hard as she could. "If you don't leave Maman alone…!"

Raoul, rocked back on his heels by the force of the slap, grasped her hand tightly as she pulled it back for another blow. "You'll what?" He spat, breath already reeking of wine even at the breakfast table.

Her blind eyes narrowed at him and she gave him a tremendous, unexpected push, sending him off balance and stumbling back into the chair he had vacated minutes earlier. In one swift movement, she grabbed up her little sister and carried her out of the house, intending to keep her where it was safe for her – away from her father – until Raoul had calmed down.

Raoul was struggling and bellowing like the drunken ox he was, trying to get to his feet, demanding to know where 'the blind brat' was taking his daughter.

Journey whirled in the doorway. "The 'blind brat' is taking her somewhere safe, and I, Journey Du Val-Daaé, am going to find work at the Opera House, and show you – _and the world_! – Just what you, with your selfishness and drunken stupidity, have taken from my mother and mistakenly tried to take away from me!"

She couldn't see it with her own eyes, Christine knew, but with her blue, slightly filmed, eyes flashing, her hair cascading in angry waves down her tall, proud back, she was so beautiful… She reminded her mother so much of an angel… long forgotten… An angel with a soaring voice that could enthrall the nation if he tried, he had been a dark god to her… until she had seen his face.

His face had been ruined … she knew not by what, but she assumed he had been born that way. The last time she had seen him had been twenty years ago, far before Journey's birth… he had enthralled her, taught her to use her voice in a way she had never imagined… 

And he had loved her.

He had loved her so greatly, so deeply; that she had left him kneeling before the throne he had built in his cold labyrinth and sobbing fit to break his ailing heart. She had loved him, oh how she had loved him as he stood there; his lips warm and spiced with the fine brandy he drank, as she kissed him for the first and last time. He had been crying then, she remembered, but so startled when she stood up to him, stretching to the very tallest she could (and still having to grasp his neck to tilt his head down) and placing her lips firmly to his. He had been so startled that for long moments, he had not kissed back and then … The passion in that man! Christine was old enough and mature enough now to admit to herself that _nothing _Raoul had ever done to her in the bedroom together (and they hadn't done much for a while, not since Lydie had been born) had ever sparked a passion in her as great as that single kiss had. It was if… as if all he was, his entire being, was placed into everything he did…

But in her heart, she knew, with knifing regret that brought tears to her eyes, she knew that the passion she had felt that night had been for her. Born from a love she still did not understand the magnitude of, it had been because of her and for her that he had lived, that his music had been made… and she had left him.

And as Raoul recovered from the shock of having his eldest daughter openly defy him, and rained blows down on Christine in retaliation, she bent her head and closed her eyes, tears falling silently for an Angel she had abandoned but never forgotten.

Little did she know that he hadn't forgotten _her _either.


	7. Angel's return

Lydie whimpered as Journey pulled her along, her much shorter legs unable to cope with her elder sister's long-legged, furious strides. At last, the blind girl picked her little sister up in one arm, using the other to guide herself along.

"Come along, Lydie," Journey encouraged. "We'll find a place at the Opera to stay for the night and I'll take you home to Mama in the morning, while that drunkard is still asleep." _That is, if Maman is still alive when morning comes… _The thought chilled her down to her very bones and she shivered, glad of the cloak she had grabbed out of habit off the hook by the door. 

Completely blind, Journey Du Chagney had had to rely on objects never moving from a certain place for all of her life, and she had been lucky that the servants were kind enough to remember her limitations.

"But I want to go to Mama _now_…" Lydie whimpered through a mouthful of her left thumb. "Papa hurts her ears when he yells."

__

"He hurts a great deal more than that, ma soeur," thought Journey grimly, but she did not voice her concerns to her little sister. "We'll go back soon, Lydie. For now, wouldn't you like to see Uncle André?"

The diversionary tactic worked its charm; the little girl squirmed and giggled in her arms. "_Oui, oui,_ _je veux voir M'sieu André_!"

Journey laughed. "Then off we shall go to see him. Read me the next street sign, Lydie." Her mother had faithfully taught her the layout of Paris by using a map written in Braille and teaching her to count her steps from one location to the other. Experimenting, she had once walked with her mother down to the dress shop that was just past the famous Opera House and remembered the number of steps then had been five hundred and ten and that the number of steps to the Opera house had been twenty less. She had just reached the count of four hundred steps in her mind when she heard Lydie gasp in delight. "Journey, Journey, see the Opera! See how pretty it is! Oh, there is a showing tonight, see the pretty ladies in their dresses!"

Smiling gently, knowing her sister did not understand that she could not see, she nodded and set Lydie down. "Take me to the front steps, Lydie and we'll see the pretty women together." She prayed André would be there and fervently hoped that he could at least give her a place to stay until Raoul calmed down somewhat.

Tugged on by her sister, hoping that she would not collide with anything or anyone as she was pulled along, she didn't stop until Lydie had pulled her to the steps and they had caught their breaths.

"Is that little Journey Du Chagney I spy, taking her pretty sister Lydie out for a walk?" André's kindly voice startled her by being so close; in the noise of the day, she hadn't heard him come up behind her.

She turned and smiled brilliantly at him, her accuracy in pinpointing the position of his body in relation to his voice quite astounding. "Not so little any more, M'sieu André."

He laughed and swung Lydie into his arms for a tickle. "Ah, you grow so fast. I remember when you were as small as this one here and called me _oncle_ instead of stuffy old _M'sieu_."

She laughed and curled her arm in his when she felt him take it. "All right, _mon oncle_, you win. Lydie here wants to see the pretty women. Is there a showing tonight?"

"Yes, but not for another hour. Those are the actors and actresses you see going in, _cherie_," he informed Lydie as he nuzzled her, his moustache making her giggle. "Come, I'll let you watch the ballerinas dance if you promise to stay very quiet."

Lydie's eyes lit up and she turned to her sister, deferring to her judgment faithfully. "May I, Journey? Please, please? _S'il te plait_?"

Journey laughed, curling her arm a little tighter into André's as she felt him guide her up the imposing stone stairs of the Opera. "So long as you do exactly as Oncle André says and stay very quiet while you watch."

"I will, I will! _Je promets_!"

"Then of course you may," André replied for Journey. "Madame Giry?" He called out in the cacophonous tumult of excited voices and half-sung notes cascading through the halls of the Opera, which they were now easily traversing.

"Oui, M'sieu?" A young-featured woman possessing hair as soft and golden in hue as Journey's appeared nearby, dressed in rehearsal leotards and body suit. Her glance slid over the young girl in his arms and froze at the sight of Journey, but André was already speaking.

"I'd like for you to allow this charming one to watch your girls rehearse and prepare for the show tonight. Her name is Lydie Du Chagney, and she promises to be very, very good and not make a sound to bother you or any of your girls, isn't that right, Lydie?"

The little girl, proud at having her own opinion asked, sat straighter in her uncle's arms and nodded most seriously. "_Oui, c'est vrai._"

Meg Giry smiled indulgently and offered her arms to the little girl, who willingly went to them. "Then come along. I'll even show you where you may watch the show, if you like." She carried Lydie off down the hall, smiling at her squeal of delight.

Journey looked blindly after the two until André laid a hand on her arm and steered her wordlessly into the quiet of his shared office. He had taken on a new partner some years ago, after the previous one, M'sieu Firman had died of a heart attack. The opera had been hard enough to control _with _a partner financially after the escapade with Journey's mother and the mob, which he had persuaded to leave the underground lair after some fast talking. Something had told him to forget avenging the deaths of a drunkard wings man and a pompous, off-key Italian tenor, and he had led the mob off after they had destroyed half the house they had found so far below.

Shaking off the dreamy memories that often found themselves coupled with a beautiful woman possessing haunting light green eyes, he seated Journey across from him and sat behind his desk, reaching out his hand to touch hers. "Now, what brings you here, _cherié_?"

Journey looked down for an instant, feeling suddenly hopeless and very foolish. She had no right to barge in here like some starry-eyed diva and demand a post in the most famed Opera House in Paris! She, a blind cripple, who had no formal training to boast of, a diva? Impossible… "I…" She faltered, and André gently squeezed her hand.

"It's all right, Journey. You can tell me anything. Go on," he encouraged when she seemed about to stop.

"I – I need a place to stay for a while… F – _Raoul_ has been increasingly unkind to me…"

André's fingers twitched slightly in startlement. The young Vicomte that had been the Opera's most highly-regarded patron for many years along with the rest of his family had never seemed able to perform an unkind act towards anyone. But, as André knew well from experience, times changed a man. However, he had never heard such condemning hatred in a girl's voice towards her father. There had been rumours that the Vicomte had become abusive and vile-tempered following the birth of his first daughter – some of the rumours said that he had even caused Journey's blindness. But André had thought them to be only slander; not worthy of a moment's more attention. Surely, this was only a case of a young, rebellious daughter forbidden something she wanted dearly… "Unkind in what way, Journey?" He had to hear the words himself.

"More to Maman than to me," she admitted, and André felt his heart give a lively, startled jump in his chest.

"Your mother, how is she doing?" Fondness entered his voice, for over the years since she had left the Opera, André had grown increasingly closer to the child-woman who had caused such a fuss twenty years ago with her thrilling voice and dark love affair. "I usually see her in the market every week, but she wasn't there this week. How is she?"

"Probably in l'hopital by now," Journey replied flatly. "Raoul hurts her for no reason other than his pigheaded stupidity."

André paled. Raoul Du Chagney an abuser? Unthinkable! And yet… He remembered the lines around Christine's eyes, the fading marks on her arms and the bruises below her eyes. "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

Journey exhaled a shuddering breath of relief and sorrow. "Perhaps not for her, but for me…"

"Anything, Journey, you know that… You have only to ask." He covered her tiny hands with his again and squeezed gently.

"A… a place to stay for a while…" She faltered again. "And, if you can, a job here, something to support me away from home…" There, she'd said it. Nervously awaiting his answer, she twisted her hands beneath his, unconsciously imitating her mother in such a way as to soften André's heart further towards her.

He smiled, and she could hear it in his voice. "You know, it is times like these that remind me there is a good God watching down on me. Just today, I have sent out an advertisement in the paper for a soprano chorus girl – you are still in that range, is that true?"

Her blind eyes shining, she nodded her head excitedly. "Yes, yes, I am! Maman has been training me whenever…" Here, she faltered again. "Whenever she can." Her tone told André that there were too many times when Christine Daaé had been incapable of doing so.

"And she received the best training in all of Paris, so you will be head and shoulders above the others who apply," André put in smoothly, wondering for a moment what Erik's reaction would be, and then chiding himself for caring. Since Carlotta's niece Suzette had been cast as diva when the distraught opera singer, her aunt, had resigned after her husband's death, André hadn't seen much of his old friend. And since that last meeting in the office when André had secured for him his normal apartment nearby the Populaire in Paris three weeks ago, he hadn't seen him at all.

Journey fell silent for a few moments. "She used to tell me tales of her Angel… And whenever I asked her why she left the Opera, she would always begin to cry and beg me not to ask any more questions…"

"Some things are better left unexplained, Journey…" André's kindly voice was sad. "But," and he released her hands here to clap his sharply, "first things first. I shall commission for you a room to sleep in, and I'll see to it that you've food and clothes for a few days until we can set up a rehearsal for you."

She gasped softly, bringing her delicate hands to her mouth in a gesture so like her mother that André had to smile. "You truly mean it? I may stay here? Oh, oncle André, thank you, thank you!" She rose and blindly groped her way towards him, he stepping quickly around his desk to prevent her from doing any harm to herself. "Anytime, my dear, any time… After the show, I shall take you to see what room we have in this sprawling old place for you… Will you sister be staying here as well?"

"Only for tonight, if that is all right? I can't take her home in the dark, and it would be frightening for her if Raoul is still angry…"

"That's perfectly all right, my dear… I'll have Phillipe take her home in the morning." He smiled as he spoke of his eldest son, then glanced towards his desk where a letter lay from another man, whom he considered as much of a son as either of his boys. "Now, would you like to come listen to the show? I'll let you take Richard's seat, as he isn't here anyway."

"M'sieu Richard is ill?" She asked, entwining her arm with his when he took her hand.

"No, simply lazy." André laughed at the startlement she exuded. "Well, he is. As point of fact…" He paused, having been about to say how little Erik thought of him as well, and curtailed it. "I must remember to speak with him about this. He's not to miss performances."

She laughed and the beauty of it, like the giggling of a happy brook, made him smile and shiver in delight. "Ever the businessman."

"Well, someone must be. Come along, or we'll miss the opening act." Arm in arm, they walked down the halls into the vast auditorium where the Opera's lights were just dimming.

As Journey lost herself in the music and voices flowing forth from the stage, André found his mind returning to the letter on his desk and to the man who had written it.

__

Angels in the Opera once more… He shook off his thoughts and settled in to enjoy the show.


	8. Ghosts Return

"Erik, where are you _now_?" I demanded softly as I glanced into his room and found him missing from his bed for the third time that day. He was healing of the infection in his lungs surprisingly quickly – which led him to constantly push his returning strength. Twice, I'd found him collapsed in the hall, obviously having pushed himself too far. I listened and heard the silvered notes of the old piano I'd bought upon securing the place for my own use whenever I was trapped aboveground for one reason or another. Gritting my teeth, I headed irately towards the music, feeling myself soften as it played on and allowing it to take me into its flowing embrace as it flooded forth from my son's skilled fingers. The melody was new, I noticed, and increasingly complex. He would have some trouble putting this one to the old organ down below, but I had the utmost faith in his abilities, which I had lovingly nurtured since the first day he had shown an aptitude for music – just after Maurissa had scarred him.

Shoving away the unwelcome thoughts – they came to mind more and more lately – I leaned against the doorway, watching critically as his graceful hands, quivering against the ivory keys, barely made a difficult arpeggio. He paused to note something down on parchment he had brought along for just that purpose, and I realized with some dismay that he'd been here all day. I had gone out that late that morning, with a firm rejoinder to him to _stay _where he was and had thought that after our last argument about it not two hours previously, that he would stay put.

"Were you planning on getting any sleep today at all?" I inquired after allowing him to finish his notations. He had learned early on that he was never to interrupt _me _while I was working, and I always extended the same courtesy to him if I could.

"Not until I finish this cadenza," he responded in a voice only slightly hoarse from illness.

For a moment, I forgot that he had spoken aloud and moved to the piano eagerly. He wrote vocal music so rarely that any time he did was a true treat. His skill with ranges and vocal techniques very nearly challenged my own, although he would never have the voice I possessed. Though _that _was simply for lack of trying. He had the potential, I knew, to out-sing any person on this earth – if he would only try. As it was, he rarely sang unless I forced him to run through vocal exercises with me. He felt that he could never match up to me and so did not try. "What ranges have you written in?"

I saw his smug smile, almost hidden by his hand as he reached up to turn the half-finished page from my sight, as was his right. "Soprano chorus begins with a haunting vocalization that a male chorale of first tenors and contrasting second baritones will join, and four measures in, the leading coloratura begins her solo… She isn't joined by the male lead until the second page, thirty measures in, where he comes across the stage with her ring on his palm, begging her forgiveness, as he's just told her in the last scene that he was responsible for her lover's death, out of jealousy."

I was somewhat taken aback. "You've written a story line to the music? Very rare, my son, for you."

He smiled sweetly. "I thought you would like it, some substance and meaning to the music." He turned and I was glad to see that the strain of his illness was at last passing from his features.

"There is always meaning to music, Erik. Always." I smiled and caressed his unscarred cheek gently. "Will you allow me to hear the male's solo?"

"I was hoping you would ask for that… Something's not right, I'm not hearing what I want in it."

We had often asked each other's opinions of music we were either writing or simply playing for pleasure, and I enjoyed the times where our separate opinions and knowledge had sparked lively debates. I enjoyed even more the collaboration that often took place when we wrote and played for each other. I nodded to him and, after a moment's pause, he slipped into one of his favorite warm-ups instead of the new piece. I chuckled, amused, as I had evidently taught him _too _well that one was never to sing with a cold voice. I warmed up obediently, missing his soaring tenor but knowing that his throat and lungs were still too sore to allow him to join me.

As he moved into the dark opening chords and played the haunting soprano line, I felt myself shudder and draw back to a time when I had felt soared through the grief-stricken mind of a young chorus girl and had taught her to utilize her true voice… In return, she had taught me how to love. Love was a painful emotion; voracious and insatiable, it ate away at everything that you were until you had to capitulate to its endless demands and give more to it – and yet, what you received in compensation seemed to dwarf the significance of any of the hurt to less than nothing.

To some, the affair with my Angel had been just that; a lecherous, deformed man seducing a young woman grateful for his aid into his heart and his lair of shadows.

But to me, it was the heaven I had forsaken sixty years ago on the night of my birth.

I returned my attention to the music at hand, singing the tenor's line with more emotion, perhaps, than the piece warranted, and when I saw Erik's fingers were slowing in rapture over the keys, I stopped his hands and simply sang, adding a subtle variation in key right as I did so. He snapped alive immediately. "Give me that!" he demanded. "That, what you just sang! That's what I was looking for!" His voice cracked and he coughed, frantically searching for the quill and paper he'd dropped in his excitement. I smiled and took the pages from him, neatly penning in the corrected score with one hand while I held him steady with the other. He wasn't breathing so heavily now, I noticed, and the congestion was nearly gone from his lungs. We would be able to return soon, perhaps even tomorrow.

A particularly harsh cough shook him and he choked for several seconds as I held him there, but he spat nothing, which was a vast improvement over the last few weeks. "Are you all right?" I tendered him the cup he'd had resting on the small stool beside the piano bench and he sipped slowly, grimacing at the slightly metallic taste of warm water. But the coughing fits were fewer and further between now, only coming on him when he spoke for extended periods of time – which I had only just allowed him to do, knowing that his mind-speech was far more draining than not speaking. He was healing, and I allowed myself to relax as I had not done in days. There had been times, late in the nights when I had held him close through fevered dreams and choking bouts that left him so breathless afterward that he more often than not blacked out from the lack of oxygen. I had stayed by him at one point for three nights running, not once leaving his side while he slept, to make sure that his breathing did not stop.

But he was strong. And he was my son.

I drew him close to me now as he set the cup aside, making more of a face at the taste in his mouth than out of any pain. His breathing had almost slowed to a regular rate when I pulled him against my chest and for a moment, he nestled there as he had done as a young boy, safe and secure against the warmth of my body. I smiled down at him and he closed his eyes in contentment, sighing faintly.

We lay against each other, my back resting against the piano and he laying against my body, for several minutes, simply letting our love and security for one another be the only companions in the silence. At last, I spoke. "Before you go to sleep tonight, gather your things… it's time we went home."

He opened his eyes and the light shining through them teased a smile in response on to my features. "Truly?" He had been longing to return home for days now, ever since the fever had broken and the illness had begun to abate.

"Yes, truly. Come, though, I want you rested for the walk back. You've been very ill."

He made a face at me that was only slightly diminished in ferocity by the happiness in his eyes and I laughed, gently pulling him to his feet and giving him a knowing look when his lower body, stiff from remaining in one position all day, refused to hold his weight at first and he staggered. He pulled another expressive face at me and I chuckled deeply, winding my arm around his shoulder and gently aiding him from the room, my left hand easily and neatly gathering the drying scores up from the piano.

He left my side as feeling returned to his lower limbs, and moved to the doorway. I had turned my back to organize his notes when I heard the sound of him falling heavily against the doorframe. Whirling, I lunged to his side, catching him before he could fall and dropping the sheets – still in their neat pile – lightly on to a table by the door. My hands flickered across his brow and cheeks, testing for fever where I knew there was none… but he was much too pale. His pulse was beating with the erratic cadence of one who has been very badly frightened, but I could see nor hear anything that would panic him so. "Erik, what is it?"

His breathing laboured by fear rather than illness, he responded at great length, and so softly I could barely hear him. "Did you ever take M-Maurissa here?"

What an odd question. I searched his features but found no clue as to why he'd asked such an odd thing. "No, she stayed down below with me. I didn't go above save inside the Opera during the time I was with her. Why do you ask?"

"Because she's standing right there…" He lifted his right hand and pointed it shakily down the hall which led to our bedrooms.

I slowly raised my head.


	9. On a winter's night, two angels meet

Journey woke slowly, to the unfamiliar sounds of hushed voices, giggling, and pattering feet in the hall. Soft notes surrounded her in a cloud of excitable happiness and for a moment, she too felt swept up in the joy that the young singers exuded.

But then her fears returned. Her audition was today, and she had not had time last night to learn the layout of this place. What if she stumbled, fell, while onstage because she couldn't see? What if they refused her a job because she was a blind cripple just like her papa had always said she was? She began to get out of bed, but then realised that she didn't know where anything was; she couldn't find her clothes or start to get ready at all! Her heart raced. What time was it? Had she slept late? Were those girls going to auditions? She scrambled out of bed, her hands swinging out blindly before her, feeling her way slowly, frantically, around the room, tears pricking at her eyes as she fervently wished for the familiar feel of her old room.

I watched, incredulous, from the shadows of the old passageway whose end was the dust-covered mirror once used to draw the fabled - and despised! - Christine Daaé into my father's home and arms. Who was this girl? She stumbled about, looking for something she couldn't appear to find. What was she doing in this place? She was obviously blind, and I winced as I heard her connect with the old dressing table along one wall.

Before I could stop myself, I had slipped up to the old mirror and moved it aside silently with my own two hands in a display of physical strength that left me quietly gasping for breath with spots flying before my eyes. Apparently _this _was what Father had meant by not overdoing things, but I shrugged it off and slipped silently towards the door, knowing that if she _were_ blind, she'd have excellent hearing and would know from where I'd come. She luckily hadn't heard me shift the mirror; she'd been crying too hard for that, but she heard me when I cleared my throat with a cough that had been tickling there. She whirled, her hand flying to her throat and demanded who was there in a voice broken with frustration and pain.

"I only mean to see if you need help, Mademoiselle..." I replied, ignoring her request to know who I was. "Is there anything you need?"

Instantly, she had forgotten her need to know my identity; with a sob that oddly tore at my heart, her words spilled out. "Yes, I cannot find my way around, I need to get dressed, I have an audition today and I have to get ready, but I can't see anything and I don't know where I am or where anything is... Oh, please help me!" 

"Of course, Mademoiselle..." I replied, eyes wide with astonishment. She wanted _me _to help _her_? She did not even know me. Nevertheless, I went through her meager possessions, lost as to where she would find her clothes. "Did you not bring clothes with you?" When the current diva had come here when I was a boy, I remembered watching with awe as countless footmen paraded boxes and trunks of more sizes and shapes than I had seen in my entire life. There was nothing here like that, though; it was if the poor girl had come with no more than the clothes on her back... Digging through the few possessions she seemed to have, I froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall, and, not knowing how to do it any other way without the girl hearing me, vanished back behind the safety of the mirror by way of my magic just as Meg Giry, the young ballet mistress who had taken her mother's place soon after her poor mother had passed on, entered the room and began speaking to Journey so quickly she luckily forgot my presence. I fled down the passage on silent feet, but her haunting, blinded eyes, wet with their entreating tears, followed me, turning my graceful steps into stumbling parodies that led me right into my father's arms.

He caught me with the same grace that had so eluded me in my way back down to our home, and steadied me, his warm yellow eyes raking over my tired features, looking worriedly for any sign of returning illness. "Are you all right? I told you to be careful, Erik." He guided me down the passage a ways, until we were close enough to the still waters of the underground lake that I could smell the minerals within it and see the faint light of Papa's lantern dancing on it's surface.

"I'm fine, Papa. I was not watching where I was going, that was all. There's a new girl in that room down there, did you know that?"

"In what room, beloved?" he replied, running his hands gently through the hair falling over the right side of my face.

"In the little room just down the passage." I pointed, watching Papa's expression. It changed, from tender concern to a raging anguish that would never abate, and I clenched my hands into fists. _He was thinking of HER again! Would she never leave him be?_

"Who is it?" His beautiful voice, gleaming before like a liquid version of his golden eyes, turned harsh with rage and fury. "I shall have André's head for this! Not in twenty years has anyone been in that room!" He started to stride angrily forward and I stopped him. 

"Papa, no, she is in there, changing for an audition!" I watched his expression change again to sick sadness. 

"She... is here as a chorus girl?"

__

Damn you, Christine, damn your selfish heart to the worst hell you could ever imagine! "She is _auditioning_, Pap. You know how picky André is. And she's probably just some hopeful off the streets, with a tiny bit of talent that wants to say she was _good _enough to be _considered _by L'Opera Populaire..."

"Picky?" He turned and stared at me. "If Monsieur André were _picky _in the least, he would _never _have assigned the questionable title of _diva _to that caterwauling excuse for a young woman!" 

I knew who he meant of course; the current diva was so very terrible that neither of us even attended the operas any more, and Lord knows there were fewer of them these days. It could be attested to the fact that those patrons of the Opera who wintered elsewhere were not yet back from their _sojourns _elsewhere in the world, but Papa and I had lived here together, surrounded by the day-to-day details of such a place of music, to know that this was simply not the truth. The Opera was failing, people were not interested in it any longer as they once were. With the recent inventions of the phonograph and the later gramophone - neither of which Papa owned -, people had no wish to listen to music live now that they could have it within the comforts of their own homes. "Perhaps this time he has learned his lesson, and after all, could there not be the chance that she has some talent?"

He grunted, his eyes torn with a haunting grief that made me turn away in shame for having brought it to him once more. 

He caught me gently by the shoulders and brought me close to him. "This is not your fault, beloved. I would have found out sooner or later. You know that."

I started to speak and then stopped, turning my face away, knowing words were not good enough in this moment to assuage the pain of these past minutes. "Will you be speaking to André?"

"I most certainly will speak to him today, _oui._" His eyes were sad and soft, but I ignored them, and he knew better than to press the issue. "Is there something you wish me to say to him?"

"Tell him that the next time he invites a blind girl to stay until an audition that he should know to give her clothing in a place easily accessible to her." Without letting Papa ask anything more of me, I nodded curtly and swept the shadows around me like a cloak, swirling off into the darkness, leaving the lantern with him as a single point of light in the shrouding black.


	10. The Soaring Song of the Nightingale

I felt my way carefully around the stage, getting myself acquainted with the unfamiliar confines, counting each step I took and asking detailed questions of Mademoiselle Giry, who led me carefully about by the arm. In an hour's time, I would have no need of her, I knew, but she was doing me a great service now, and to say such a thing would be seen as ungrateful. I had come here with only the clothes I wore on my back and my voice to see me through this ordeal, and briefly, I wondered if it would be enough.

_There is one thing about being blind – unless I touch them, I cannot see the pity on their faces! _But I knew it would be there – perhaps even more so on _mon onclé's _face, for he loved me, and did not want me to fail.

_I will not fail_! I vowed furiously to myself, and closed my sightless eyes against the angry tears which filled them suddenly. _I will not fail!_

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Mademoiselle Giry's kind, young voice touched gently on my ears as I turned with her and allowed her to lead me back to my room, Mama's room.

I nodded firmly, but inside, my doubts were creeping to the surface again, like a canker once lanced but growing anew. I could not let doubts slow me! "Of course I will, mademoiselle!" I replied with a laugh that did not sound too forced.

I heard the smile in her words, and felt her squeeze my shoulder gently. "Pre-performance jitters get the best of everybody sometimes, but you're right, you'll do fine. I remember when you were a child, you sang all the time, and if you do half as well as that tonight, you'll take the Opera by storm! Why, even the Ghost would approve!"

I rounded on her, blind eyes staring through her. "Ghost? There are no such thing as ghosts…"

She paused, and I felt that her mind was stumbling to deny the words she'd evidently let slip without thought. "Of course not. It's just a silly tale to frighten my girls."

Her "girls" were the ballet corps, of whom I would not be joining because of my blindness, but that was all right. Maman had been one, once, but I was not here to dance. I was here to sing, to show my father what _a blind cripple _could do when she wasn't under his drunken thumb… to show Maman that music had not been taken away from her forever …

But most of all, I was here for me. I did not press Mademoiselle Giry on her slip now; there was time for that later. There were so many secrets to this place – why, for instance, had _mon onclé _let it fall into such disrepair? I could hear the building's suffering in each creak of the un-oiled door hinges, and smell its decay in the rotting, dusty curtains and the old hangings of posters for Operas I nor any other would ever see again. And what were these whispers of ghosts in the Opera? Everyone knew that ghosts didn't exist – their claim to existence was as spurious as the one which purported that we should have a firm belief in Angels.

I curled a lip as I returned to my room and sat upon the little bed for a few moments before dressing for my audition. I had long-ago decided that the only angels which existed were the ones which damned people to Hell – and left my mother in the arms of the drunken, abusive boar she called a husband. She had not deserved that – but her precious Angel of Music, the man she had believed had been sent to her by her father – had left her to him, had _made _her go, as if she weren't _good _enough for him!

I clenched my little fists in rage. Well, I would show everyone how good my mother was – and had always been! I had received her teaching when it came to my voice, and _she_, not some false story-book Angel, would be given credit for my success tonight!

I tugged on my borrowed clothing with perhaps more force than was necessary, and was ready when Mme. Giry came to collect me for my audition.

When I reached the stage and thanked her for her help, I walked out, alone and proud, to the exact center, and waited for the music to begin. There was a brief silence that was broken by murmurs of surprise from all around – I gauged that the ballet chorus had come to watch me sing, and they accounted for the noise to the side and rear of me, while the soft words from the front, which was less in volume, would be from André and whatever other managers or directors had attended – but I did not let that deter me. I drew my mind back to my song just as the piano opening at last began, and when I closed my eyes, I smiled.

_Tonight, I sing for you, Maman_.


End file.
